


Under the Spray

by mollrach13



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: ohsam, Episode: s13e12 Various and Sundry Villains, Gen, Nightmares, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Season/Series 13, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 07:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14515590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollrach13/pseuds/mollrach13
Summary: For the prompt: "13x12 – after talking to Rowena about seeing Lucifer’s true face, Sam decides to open up to Dean."





	Under the Spray

**Author's Note:**

> For the OhSam Birthday Meme: Hurt vs Comfort. This is for the Comfort side.

Dean was on his fourth beer of the night. The ice pack on his leg had long stopped being anything more than a warm wet bag. He really should have gone and got a fresh one from the freezer. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. He took another long draw from the bottle, letting the bitter liquid sit on his tongue. 

Then, through the quiet ticking of the Bunker, a great crash reverberated through the stillness. Dean was up on his feet before he knew what he was doing, the throbbing ache in his leg forgotten. 

“Sam!” he called into the meandering hallways of the Bunker. No response. Dean took a deep breath. It didn’t mean anything. A shelf in the archives could have given way. Sam could be asleep. God knows the kid was exhausted enough to sleep through a hurricane. 

He should go sit down and finish his beer before going to bed himself…

Dean was hobbling down the long hallway without much chance for a second thought. 

His first stop was Sam’s room. He could see as soon as he turned the corner into the hallway that the door stood ajar and a quick peek into the dark room showed an empty room, the bed a dishevelled mess showing that Sam had at least made it back to his room before wandering off. 

Walking further into the warren of the Bunker he could hear the shower in the old bathroom running, the ancient pipes creaking against the onslaught of water through their centres. 

“Sam?” he called against the shower room door when he reached it. He didn’t want to encroach on his brother’s privacy unless he needed to. If Sam just woke up and fancied a shower then Dean would leave him to it. “Sam, it’s Dean. You alright?”

The rushing of water was the only response. 

Slowly, giving Sam time to whine at him for some solitude, Dean opened the door. 

A cloud of steam escaped the open doorway and it took a moment for Dean’s vision to clear as he peered through the mist. 

And there, huddled on the floor in the corner, against the greying bathroom tiles, beneath the scolding spray, was Sam. 

-

A wordless shout of alarm escaped Dean’s throat as he darted forward into the room. He hissed as his hand dove under the shower spray, grasping at the handle to turn the rushing water off. 

Sam was still fully clothed in his sweats and a t-shirt that clung to him now under the weight of the water. Even though steam rose from his wet body Dean could see the shivers racking Sam’s body from where he stood. 

“Sam. Sammy,” Dean called frantically, kneeling in the wet puddled floor. Sam didn’t react, his eyes were fixed unseeing on something in the middle distance. His face blank and vacant. Dean’s heart clenched and he grabbed at Sam’s face, trying to get his eyes to focus. “Look at me man. Snap out of it.”

Sam’s reaction was not one that Dean was expecting and the fist came out of nowhere catching Dean against the temple. 

“Son of a Bitch,” Dean cursed shaking his head to clear the ringing. Sam always had packed a mean punch. 

Sam was scrambling backwards, away from Dean and into the corner of the shower room. He had his eyes clenched shut and his hands were twisted together, his fingers pressing into his palm so hard he was going to draw blood at any moment. 

Without stopping to think Dean grabbed forward again, bracketing Sam’s arms against his sides. Sam’s struggles increased but Dean just pulled him in tighter, trapping Sam’s hands between their chests where they couldn’t do any more damage (to Dean’s face or himself). 

An unearthly sound, a mixture between a growl and whine of distress, escaped Sam’s mouth and it pulled at something deep and primal within Dean’s heart. 

But Dean just held tight to Sam and rode out the worst of it, never once letting up on his mantra of “It’s alright Sammy. It’s just me. It’s Dean. You’re OK. It’s just us. It’s alright Sammy…”. Eventually the power in Sam’s struggles waned and the fight went out of him. Still Dean didn’t move. He sighed and adjusted his head, letting his damp cheek press against Sam’s neck. 

Dean wouldn’t be able to explain how he knew it but he felt it the moment Sam came back to himself. Maybe it was the stiffening of his shoulders, or the change in his breath, or the fluttering of his eyelashes against Dean’s jaw. But eventually he stirred. 

“Dean?” he asked tiredly, the voice muffled slightly against Dean’ shoulder. 

“Yeah Sammy,” Dean sighed. “It’s me. It’s me.”

“I…” Sam started, his voice confused and small like it never was normally (or should be). “I was cold… I think… I think I had a nightmare…”

Sam was awake and lucid now. And they were both wet. They should be getting up, shaking this episode off and going back to their respective rooms. But Dean’s heart was still in his throat and he couldn’t quite bring himself to relinquish Sam. Not just yet. 

So he didn’t. They stayed there like that, curled around each other, wet and damp and shivering. 

An hour could have passed, or a few minutes. Sam’s heart had calmed down now, no longer beating like a drum against Dean’s chest but instead set up a steady rhythm. 

“I’m scared Sammy,” Dean sighed against Sam’s temple, like a confession whispered in the dark. “You’re scaring me.”

Dean felt Sam shake his head jerkily, his jaw still rattling with shivers. “I’m sorry-“

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Dean cut in harshly, tightening his grip on the back of Sam’s neck and felt Sam stiffen underneath him. He closed his eyes and took a breath. “Alright?” he murmured when he had himself under more control. “You don’t need to be sorry that you’re feeling like… this. I mean hell – it’s about time. But you gotta let me in. You gotta tell me what’s going on in your head man.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can.” Dean tried to pour every ounce of conviction into his voice. “You can talk to me about anything. You know that.”

Silence spread out between them, waiting to be filled. When Sam did nothing but tremble against Dean’s chest Dean let out the breath that he had been holding in one rush. 

“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s… let’s just get you dried off and back to bed ok?”

The journey back to Sam’s room wasn’t exactly easy. Whatever screwy head trip sleep-walk Sam had been on still seemed to be messing with his consciousness and he tripped and stumbled every half step. 

Dean propped a shoulder under Sam’s arm but Sam – Dean’s stubborn independent pain in the ass of a little brother – took most of his own weight, no matter how many times he faltered. 

When they got back to Sam’s room he was at least coherent enough to strip himself out of his wet clothes. Dean picked out some new sweats from his brother’s meagre collection and (after Sam batted away his attempts to help) left Sam to dress himself. 

He brewed a mug of that fruity funky tea Sam bought ages ago and by the time he got back Sam’s room with the steaming mug Sam was dressed (again) and sat on the edge of his bed. 

Sam didn’t even look up as Dean entered and placed the mug on the bedside table. His hair was still wet and pushed back from his face and his eyes were far off, watching something in the distance. Something that Dean couldn’t see. 

“Sam,” he said, his worry making it come out a little harsher than he meant. It had the right effect though and Sam’s eyes cleared, skittering over the room before blurrily settling on Dean. “When was the last time you slept dude?” Dean grumbled. That earnt Dean a bitch-face. Tired and worn down but no less potent. “I mean for more than a couple of hours.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said in one big exhale flopping back onto the bed.

Dean watched his brother for a moment. His long broad body nearly took up all of the bed, with one long leg almost hanging off the end and another bent and firmly planted on the floor. Sam was strong, in more ways than one, and had the power and metier to move mountains. But right now - tired and worn and staring up at the revolving ceiling fan – he looked vulnerable in a way that Dean hated. 

“You’re never going to sleep like that Sammy. Come on.”

Dean manoeuvred Sam’s oddly pliant body onto his side, tucking both limbs up onto the bed and under the blankets. But still his brother’s eyes stayed resolutely open. 

“Closing your eyes would also help with the sleeping process.”

“Don’t want to sleep,” Sam said, his voice deep and gruff despite the childish saying. “Every time I close my eyes I-“ but Sam clamped his mouth shut before he could finish that sentence. Dean watched the muscle in the side of Sam’s jaw tick as he ground his teeth together. Slowly Dean lowered himself into a crouch beside Sam’s bed, planting himself firmly into Sam’s eyesight. 

“You what Sam?” 

Sam opened his mouth and then closed it again. And then opened it. Dean just stayed there, ignored the screaming in his knees and prepared himself. Because they had never talked about it. And he didn’t know if he was quite ready for whatever Sam was about to say. 

“I see His face,” Sam croaked out eventually. 

Dean blinked. “His face?” he asked, softly and trying to hide his confusion. Because of all the things he thought Sam was going to say that hadn’t been on the list. 

“Yeah,” Sam sighed. 

Still Dean was lost. “I mean… I’ve seen his face, granted it’s a little on the-“

“No,” Sam interrupted. “His Face. His true face.”

“Like his angel face?”

“Yeah. And it’s…” but whatever Sam was going to say was cut off by a full body shudder. It was so violent for a second Dean thought it was a seizure and was up on the bed, grabbing Sam’s shoulders before he could think. 

“Hey, just take it easy,” Dean coached, as he felt Sam breaths speed up. 

“Sorry.”

“Would you quit saying that?” Dean snapped, his harsh voice bellied by the comforting hand running up and down Sam’s back. They sat in silence for a while, Sam’s deep breathing and the buzzing of the Bunker a comforting backdrop to what had so far been a stressful evening. 

At some point Sam had turned, twisting his body so he was laid mostly on his front, arms around his pillow. 

“You should have that leg up,” Sam said, his voice muffled from where he had his face half pressed into his pillow. “I’m OK now. Go get some ice.”

Dean snorted and shook his head. Only Sam could have a near catatonic episode and then try to lecture Dean on self-care. “You are so far away from OK Sam.”

He felt Sam’s shoulders shrug. “I don’t think I will ever be. This is it. I am going to be like this for the rest of my life. I’m going to be scared, screwed up… helpless.”

There was that word again. The one Sam had used to describe Rowena. He didn’t know what to say. Because how did he explain to Sam that he was the least ‘helpless’ person Dean had ever met. That he was strong and fierce and unstoppable when he wanted to be. That he had a heart that was so big, even after everything it had been through, that Dean marvelled at it. That he had a mind that still made Dean boggle.

So he didn’t say any of it. Instead he said “Just go to sleep Sammy.” 

Dean snoozed there for the rest of the night, a hand splayed gently over the span of Sam’s shoulders and felt them rise and fall with each breath. 

Because Dean could gank as many demon assholes as he wanted. And he could shank all the angels in heaven. And he could (and he would, even if it was the last thing he ever did) lock Lucifer back up in his little box and burn the thing. But he could never fight the demons in Sam’s own head. Sam had to do that for himself. And Dean had no idea how to help. 

So yeah… maybe ‘helpless’ was a sentiment that Dean could understand.


End file.
